


Nikki

by verucasalt123



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Bickering, Fight Sex, Jealous Dean Winchester, M/M, Sam Is A Sneaky Bastard, Sibling Incest, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-15
Updated: 2013-06-15
Packaged: 2017-12-15 01:07:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,361
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/843532
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/verucasalt123/pseuds/verucasalt123
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean's being jealous, Sam's pretending he doesn't like it. This is another one I wrote forever ago that I'm just moving from LJ to AO3.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Nikki

“It’s not like you can’t just have it, Dean”, Sam pointed out with an epic pout and a bitchface that was yet to be named.

“What the fuck are you talking about?”, Dean spat back as a retort, knowing **exactly** what the fuck Sam was talking about.

Sam was frustrated. The arguing had been getting worse over the past few days, and it seemed like the two of them couldn’t have even the simplest of conversations without one or the other of them doing something ridiculous, like throwing a book, or locking themselves in the bathroom to ensure they got ALL the hot water.

The whole “locking” thing in the bathroom was a necessity, due to one of them consistently coming in to flush the toilet while the other was taking a shower, just to be an asshole. 

He knew Dean was pissed about the whole “coming home with a phone number in his pocket” incident, which for all time would be referred to as “Sam being a selfish unthinking dick” incident in Dean’s mind. 

In response to finding the hastily scrawled number of Nikki, yes, Nikki with two k’s and little hearts over the i’s instead of dots, Dean had promptly cut Sam off. He was acting like a jealous high school girl, but Sam wouldn’t say that, on account of him not wanting the whole “cut off” thing to last any longer than it already had. 

“You know what I’m talking about, _jerk_. You want me. You’re trying to prove some kind of epic point, like it’s the principle of the thing, I didn’t fucking ask any girl for her number. I’m not going to call some chick. I can’t even remember her name, Dean!”, Sam cried out with righteous indignance “I wasn’t paying attention to her. I swear, come on! Are you going to hold out on me for the rest of our lives?”

Dean’s reply was simple. “Her name is **Nikki** , with two k’s”, Dean replied stoically, adding “and I doubt she’d shove her phone number at some dude who _wasn’t paying attention_ to her. Fucker.”

“So, you’re saying you’re still mad. Seriously? _This_ is what makes you mad at me? Mad enough that you won’t do want you want?”

“Oh, and what is it that I want, wise college-boy with your Magic 8-Ball letting you look into my brain? You a mind reader now?”, Dean asked with a sneer.

Sam was DONE. “Dude, you’ve been eye-raping me since yesterday.”

“What the **fuck** is eye-raping, you sick pervert?”, Dean asked, 

“Oh”, Sam replied, his haughty expression heightened. “You’re calling _me_ a pervert now? After that whole thing in Ohio with the –“

Dean’s glare cut Sam off there. “I still demand an explanation for the term _eye raping_. It just sounded wrong.”

“It’s not my job to fill in the blanks, jerk. You know what eyes are and you know what raping is, and even if you only have a GED you ought to be able to figure it out all on your own.”

Low blow. Seriously way beneath Sam, and a testament to how _climb-the-walls-desperate-end-of-the-line_ horny he was, that he would say something so ugly and hateful to his brother. He was lucky to have escaped that comment without picking several of his teeth up off the floor instead of just Dean’s full-on clock to his left cheek, which only left a scrape and what would later turn into an ugly purple bruise.

“Fine, bitch, then you must have been _eye-raping_ this Nikki whore for her to think it was ok for her to slip you her number. And don’t even fucking try telling me she stuck it in your pocket without you knowing, or you will be demoted to the most mentally handicapped hunter who ever lived, letting someone stick something into your pocket without noticing.”, Dean supplied as a retort, as Sam was still picking himself up and checking for loose teeth.

“What do you want from me? Jesus, Dean, I took the stupid napkin with the phone number on it and SET IT ON FIRE. And now we’re 300 miles away. And I don’t even remember who the hell this girl is, and even if I had asked for her number, do you seriously think I would have called her?”

Oh. Wrong answer. 

“So, there’s a possibility that you might ask some girl in a bar for her phone number?”, Dean asked, his voice smooth and low and what some would have called calm if they didn’t know him like Sam did and recognize the hint of “I’m going shoot you in your stupid fucking face” in his inflection. 

But really. There wasn’t going to be any face-shooting. Not with a gun, anyway. Dean was trying to make a point. There wasn’t much that could force him to admit it, but he was jealous. Not only was he pissed that Sam would take a girl’s number, which was more than enough in itself, because Sam would have flipped his floppy headed lid if Dean had taken a girl’s number(and that wasn't a guess, because Dean had taken girls' phone numbers before, on more than one occasion), but because somewhere waaaaaaaaaaaaay deep down inside, the girl had given her number to Sam, and not to Dean. Which was not standard protocol. 

Sam’s brain, both the upstairs and downstairs, were arguing with each other. The possessive part of him vs. the evolved and respectful part of him were in a cage match, like UFC, fight to the death, totally illegal cage match. Dean was the one who attracted (downstairs) **bar skanks** young ladies who frequented nightclubs (evolved), Dean was the one who politely turned down requests for (downstairs) **a quick blow job in the bathroom** some alone time with whichever perfectly respectable woman who was entitled to any kind of sexual encounter that interested her (evolved), as was her right as an adult who could request (downstairs) **anonymous filthy bar sex** intimacy from whoever she wanted (evolved). Dean was the one who had to fight off the (downstairs) **filthy whores** lovely women who found him attractive(evolved).

See how that could maybe get complicated?

Once Sam had assured himself that no teeth were going to fall out of his mouth, he wrestled control away the part of him that wanted to be defensive and angry at Dean’s attitude and settled himself into the part where he knew what he had to do to try and make things right between them, to try to comfort Dean and assure him that Sam would not ever go looking for sexual satisfaction elsewhere.

“Dean. Come on, baby, don’t be like that, please”, he pleaded, putting his best effort into batting his lashes over his irresistible hazel puppy-dog-eyes-of-doom that he knew his brother couldn’t resist, at least not for too long. Sam wasn’t above using the power he had over Dean if it was going to get him what he wanted, not since he figured out that he had that power when he was seven years old, way before any of _this_ had ever started between them. Then, it had just resulted in Sam getting an extra helping of ice cream or whatever kind of candy he wanted in the convenience store where they stopped while their dad filled the Impala with gas. Now, of course, it usually resulted in Sam getting his brains sucked out through his cock. 

Not today, though. 

“All right, Sammy. You want me to just have what I want? Fine. I’ll take what I want.”, Dean replied, leveling his gaze at Sam’s eyes with glints of both lust and anger.

Almost an hour later, as Sam slid down the wall he’d been thoroughly fucked almost all the way through, they laid together on the floor holding each other and whispering apologies and promises of better behavior and reactions into each other’s ears, Sam gave Dean his biggest dimpled wholehearted grin, kissing him with unbridled passion and knowing that his brother had no clue whatsoever that there was no such girl as Nikki, and that Sam knew how to imitate girly handwriting on a bar napkin.

**Author's Note:**

> I obviously mean no disrespect toward anyone whose name is actually Nikki, spelled with two Ks, even if you use little hearts to dot the 'i's.


End file.
